Wednesday, August 29, 2012

God you bores me, gores me
slow, filing us
in your paperwork shuffle. Fix-it
and fix-it again, retaliate
not and filch from every poor
bastard that ever wrote realist
fiction, prose so shopworn
and dull as a spoon. Lacquer
and lacquer again. Lick the cross
of Carver and his "editor"
and then you may begin
to come into your power as
writers. As if power
is something come into as a writer;
but that's a dictator's view.
The screw turning us now.

Friday, August 17, 2012

You grew a beard in my dream
last night, switched sexes
and declared yourself
as yourself
in a final sense. One hazy
night a month ago you
possessed my lover's body;
becoming her. Blonde hair dyed
black, tan skin
drained fishbelly pale.
What are you doing? I haven't
spoken to you in years and
don't intend to. In my dreams
you're like a man found facedown
in a pile of shit and trash,
enjoying himself. My own face
in the between the burger wrappers
and puss.